Conan the Defender (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 2)

Conan eyed his chains, but did not again attempt to break them. Among the lessons taught by the treacherous snow-covered crags of the Cimmerian mountains was this: when action was not possible, struggle only brought death sooner; waiting, conserving strength, brought the chance of survival. The Cimmerian hung in his chains with the patience of a hunting beast waiting for its prey to come closer.

XXI

Breaking, the chains that held Conan’s arms began to rattle down, lowering him to the stone floor. He could not suppress a groan as his position shifted; he had no idea how many hours he had hung there. The pool of light and the dark beyond were unchanging, giving no sign of time’s passage.

His feet touched the floor, and knees long strained gave way. The full length of his massive body collapsed on the stone. Straining, he tried to get his arms under him, but the blood had long since drained from them. They could only twitch numbly.

The two men who had wielded the whips hurried into the light and began removing the chains. His weakened struggles were useless as they manacled his hands behind him and linked his ankles with heavy iron chains. The man with the burn scar was as silent and expressionless as before, but hairy-chest, he with the oddly pleasant face, talked almost jovially.

“Almost did I think we’d let you hang another day, what with all the excitement of this one. Fasten that tighter,” he added to the other. “He’s dangerous, this one.” The second man grunted and went on as he was, hammering a rivet into the iron band on Conan’s left wrist.

“My men,” the Cimmerian croaked. His throat felt dry as broken pottery shards.

“Oh, they were part of it,” the round-faced man laughed deprecatingly. “Fought off the Golden Leopards sent to arrest them, they did, and disappeared. Might have been made much of, another time, but more has happened since dawn this day than since Garian took the throne. First the King banished all of his old councilors from the city on pain of death. Then he created the title High Councilor of Nemedia, with near the power of the King himself attached, and gave it to Lord Albanus, an evil-eyed man if ever I saw. And to top that, he named his leman a lady. Can you imagine that blonde doxy a lady? But all those fine nobles walk wide of her, for they say she may be Queen, next. Then there were the riots. Get the rest of it, Struto.”

The silent man grunted again and lumbered away.

Conan worked his mouth for moisture. “Riots?” he managed.

The one-faced man nodded. “All over the city.” Looking about as if to see if anyone might overhear, he added in a whisper. “Shouting for Garian to abdicate, they were. Maybe that’s why Garian got rid of the old councilors, hoping any change would satisfy them. Leastways, he didn’t send the Golden Leopards out after them.”

Ariane’s people had finally moved, Conan thought. Perhaps they might even bring changes —indeed, it seemed as if they already had—but for better or for worse? He forced a question out, word by word. “Had—they—armed—men—with—them?”

“Thinking of your company again, eh? No, it’s been naught but people of the streets, though a surprising number have swords and such, or so I hear. Struto! Move yourself!”

He with the burn scar returned, carrying a long pole that the two of them forced between Conan’s arms and his back. Broad straps fastened about his thick upper arms held it in place. From a pouch at his belt, the round-faced one took a leather gag and shoved it between the Cimmerian’s teeth, securing it behind his head.

“Time to take you before

the King,” he told Conan. “What they’re going to do to you, likely you’d rather be in Lady Tiana’s gentle care. Eh, Struto?” He shook with laughter; Struto stared impassively. “Well, barbarian, you have some small time to make peace with your gods. Let’s go, Struto.”

Grasping the ends of the pole, the two forced Conan to his feet. Half carrying, half pushing, they took him from the dungeon, up stairs of rough stone to the marble floors of the Palace. By the time they reached those ornate halls the Cimmerian had regained full use of his legs. Pridefully he shook off the support of the two, taking what short steps the chains at his ankles allowed.

Round-face looked at him and laughed. “Anxious to get it over with, eh?”

They let him shuffle as best he could, but retained their grip on the pole. A grim smile touched his lips. Did he wish to, he could sweep both men off their feet using the very pole with which they thought to control him. But he would still be chained and in the heart of the Palace. Patience. He concentrated on flexing his arms in their bonds to get full feeling back.

The corridors through which they passed seemed empty. The slaves were there, as always, scurrying close to the walls. But the nobles, sleek and elegant in silks and velvets, were missing. The three men made their way alone down the center of the passages.

As they turned into a broad hall, its high arched ceiling supported by pilasters, another procession approached them from ahead. Graecus, Gallia and three others from the Thestis stumbled along under the eyes of two guards. All five were gagged and had their hands roped behind them. At the sight of Conan, Graecus’ eyes widened, and Gallia tried to shy away from the big Cimmerian.

One of their guards called out to the two with Conan, “This lot for the mines.”

“Better than what this one gets,” the round-faced man laughed.

Joining in his mirth, the guards prodded their charges on. The bedraggled young rebels hurried past, seeming as fearful of Conan as of their captors.

The Cimmerian ignored them. He did not hold them to account for the lies they had told against him. Few men and fewer women could hold out under the attentions of an expert torturer, and Vegentius would have found another way to imprison him, if not through them.

Before them at the end of the hall great carven doors opened, swung wide by six golden-cloaked soldiers, and Conan passed into the throne room of Nemedia.

Double rows of slender fluted columns held a domed roof of alabaster aloft. Light from golden lamps dangling from the ceiling on silver chains glittered on polished marble walls. The floor was a vast mosaic depicting the entire history of Nemedia. Here was the explanation for the empty halls, for here the nobles had gathered in all their panoply, dark-eyed lords in robes of velvet with golden chains about their necks, sleek ladies coruscating with the gems that covered their silk-draped bodies. Through the center of them ran a broad path from the tall doors to the Dragon Throne. Its golden-horned head reared above the man seated there, and jeweled wings curved down to support his shoulders. On his head was the Dragon Crown.

Conan set his own pace down that path, though the two jailors tried to hurry him. He would not stumble in his chains for the amusement of this court. Before the throne he stood defiantly and stared into Garian’s face. The men holding the pole tried to force him to his knees, but he remained erect. A murmur rose among the nobles. Rushing forward, guards beat at his back and legs with their spear butts until, despite all he could do, he was shoved to his knees.

Through it all, Garian’s face had not changed expression. Now the man on the throne rose, pulling his robe of cloth-of-gold about him.

“This barbarian,” he announced loudly, “we did take into our Palace, honoring him with our attention. But we found that we nursed treachery at our bosom. Most foully our trust was betrayed, and … .”